


quoting poetry

by belby



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Romantic Fluff, by like a couple years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11545536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belby/pseuds/belby
Summary: Peter gets hurt, Michelle patches him up; nail painting and poetry are also involved.





	quoting poetry

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe this is the second spideychelle fic i'm posting within two days?? whomst am i 
> 
> but i just rlly wanted to write abt them like, a couple years older and already in a relationship because i just know theyre gonna be the cutest and lamest couple ever. its scientifically proven. 9/10 doctors recommend. dermatologists hate them.
> 
> (but also save me from this hell)

 

It's funny, how once a typical Friday night for Michelle consisted of her arguing with edge-lords on online forums, curled up in her pyjamas sipping tea from her favourite mug, groaning at her parents to get out of her room _(and please, just leave that cup there. It's my cup. I like it there. My room is not messy. Okay, okay fine, I'll clean it later)_ , but now, at nearly eighteen years old, on a Friday night, Michelle is sitting cross-legged on Peter Parker's bed, like _usual_.

The room is lit by warm orange light and they are on the top bunk ("I like having options," Peter had said, when Michelle had asked him why he even had a bunk bed in the first place. "Also Ned basically lives here"). Peter is lying on his back in front of her, face obscured by the book he's currently reading- _Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth_ , by Warsan Shire, which Michelle had lent to him . His feet are resting on a cushion in her lap, and she is painting his nails Robin Egg Blue, using a nail polish she had found left out in the lounge room. ("That's May's," Peter had said, when Michelle had snatched it up with a grin, declaring she was going to paint Peter's nails. "You can't use that.")

( _"Yes she can!"_ May had called from the other room. And they'd both startled, because they thought she had left for her date five minutes ago).

"You know what I just realised?" Peter says, letting the book fall to his chest. Michelle doesn't look at him, too busy trying to perfect the second coat she is currently applying to his big toe. She doesn't use nail polish often, but she's an artist, so she's fucking _good_ at this.

"What?" she hums.

"I don't like poetry," Peter says, holding up the book of poems he has been completely absorbed in for the past ten minutes.

"I'm breaking up with you," Michelle deadpans immediately.

"That sucks."

Michelle finishes the second coat and leans back slightly to admire her work.

"You don't like it because you don't understand it," she says. "You're not...hm...what's the word? Cultured? Sophisticated? Intelligent? Intelligent," she decides. "You're not intelligent enough to understand it."

"You should've gone with cultured," Peter replies.

"Yeah, probably," Michelle agrees. "But I didn't think you'd know what it means."

Peter scoffs, offended, but whatever he was about to retort back is interrupted by the sound of the old police scanner on his desk crackling to life. They both jump in surprise - Peter has been trying, and failing, to get that thing to work for days - and exchange odd looks. Warped, fuzzy voices buzz from the speakers, hardly distinguishable, and Peter scrambles upright, leaning over the edge of the bed in an attempt to catch what they're saying.

"Robbery," he mumbles. "Not too far from here. Oh, _shit_."

"What?" Michelle asks, leaning over next to him. Peter is already leaping from the bunk, landing with a _thud_ on the floor.

"They all got away," he says, yanking off his shirt. He pulls open his cupboard and rummages around inside, looking for his suit. "Armed and dangerous."

For a very short moment, Michelle watches the movement of his back muscles as he kicks off his sweatpants, but then her eyes travel down to his feet, which he is struggling to stuff into the suit, and her stomach sinks.

"You ruined all my hard work," she says.

"Huh?" Peter asks, hopping around the room as he tugs the suit over his legs. "Oh, right, my nails. They weren't _that_ good. Some of them were smudged."

"Yeah, because you _ruined_ them, idiot."

Peter is currently spinning around like a dog chasing its tail, looking for his mask. He finds it half-hidden under a lazily discarded shirt and scoops it up. "Maybe you're just not as good at nail painting as you think you are. Nobody's perfect, MJ."

Michelle rolls her eyes, flopping back onto on his bed.

"Asshole," she grumbles up at the ceiling.

The bed shakes as he leaps back onto it, shifts under his weight. He leans forward, the room's light suddenly blocked by the huge grin on his dumb face as he looms over her.

"I'm kidding," he says, placing a hand by her head to hold himself up, his body heavy, in a nice way, where it leans over her. "You're perfect and amazing and the best nail painter I've ever seen."

He ducks down to kiss her, short but soft.

"Shut up and get out of here before I throw up," Michelle says, but she's smiling, and at some point twisted her fingers in the hairs curling over the back of his neck. "Also there are, like, dangerous, armed criminals on the loose, so..."

"Right, shit, yeah," he says, pulling away quickly. He tugs his mask on, opens the window, and is halfway through it before he turns and says to her, "Wait for me, okay?"

"Sure," Michelle says. "I can't go anywhere, anyway. You're my ride home."

"Oh yeah," Peter says. And even though his face is covered by his mask, she knows he's smiling. "Good."

 

* * *

 

Having the Parkers' apartment to herself isn't as odd as one would think it is. First of all, Michelle comes here so often that it feels like a second home to her, and she _likes_ it much better than her own home. Second of all, they always have really good sandwich meats in the fridge, and May buys the best bread, so Michelle is quite content to make herself a sandwich with only the background hum of the television to keep her company. 

Just like every other time Peter has pulled on his suit and barrelled head first into danger, Michelle allows herself a short moment to worry for him. Key word here being _short_ , because she knows that there is really no point in spending much time feeling anxious about him. He's a superhero (as he so often likes to reminds her), and there's not much she can do, anyway. Plus, he's good at what he does, she's seen him in action many times.

But she's also seen him, at ten years old, crying over getting his fingers crushed in a door. And at age eleven, sniffling into his shirt after he witnessed a bird get hit by the school bus.

She had had no idea what to do in either of those situations, anything over a cool neutral on the emotional scale being uncomfortable and, frankly, a little disturbing for her. So both times she had said simply, "You're okay," and Peter had looked at her with teary eyes, shoulders sagging helplessly as though she was giving him an expectation he was afraid he couldn't live up to.

So, yes, Peter Parker is a superhero. But he's also a giant softy.

And it's hard not to feel a little worried about him.

 

Michelle eats her sandwich on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, flicking lazily through the channels on TV. She watches _Kitchen Nightmares_ for a bit then wanders back into Peter's bedroom, climbing up onto the top bunk. He'll want to tell her everything when he comes back, eyes alight, body restless with leftover adrenaline, so she might as well be ready.

Time passes slowly. Michelle picks up the copy of _Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth_ Peter had discarded and flips through it. A couple pages have the corners folded over, and even though they are bookmarking some of her favourite poems, she doesn't like to bend the pages of her books. Meaning, she wasn't the one who had bookmarked them.

She snorts. _"Don't like poetry my ass."_

 

* * *

 

It's nearing an hour since Peter left when there's a loud _bang_ against the bedroom window, and Michelle almost feels herself leave her skin. She scrambles into a sitting position - had been close to falling asleep - as the window is wretched open, cold night air tickling her face, and Peter collapses onto the bed.

Michelle can tell something's wrong by the way he's breathing. Heavily, loudly, and when he shifts, he inhales sharply through his teeth. She launches into action immediately, shutting the window after him, resting his pillows up against the headboard, so he can sit back against them. He settles awkwardly, heavily favouring his left side, one hand gripping his mask tightly, the other hovering over his right shoulder, head hanging.

"Peter," Michelle says.

"I'm," he winces, "fine."

Michelle reaches out slowly, moving his hand away from his shoulder, and her breath catches in her throat. A deep, bloodied gash travels from just above his collar bone, down to his arm pit. Horrible and cruel looking. Michelle looks desperately at Peter's face.

"What the hell happened?" she asks, but there's no fire in her words. "I thought the suit was supposed to protect you."

"Yeah," Peter says, voice hoarse, "From ordinary weapons. Those...they were not using ordinary weapons. One guy stabbed me with this weird looking knife." Michelle lifts her hand, gently brushes a strand of hair away from his forehead. He watches her. His skin is damp with sweat.

"It felt like I was on fire," Peter adds quietly. The tone of his voice makes Michelle's chest tighten, but she can't think of anything comforting to say. She's not good at this.

"That's not good," is what comes out of her mouth, quite lamely.

"No." Peter huffs a very weak laugh. At least he's amused. "It's not."

He looks very small sitting there, with his scared eyes clinging to her face as though he's afraid of what might happen if he looks away, pain tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyebrows slightly furrowed. The words _"You're okay"_ rise up in Michelle's throat, like all those years ago, but she swallows them back down.

Instead, she kisses him, very gently, then she gets to work.

"I'm gonna need you to take your suit off. Just to the waist," she says. "I'm gonna get a first aid kit, okay? I'll only be gone a sec."

Peter used to keep a first aid kit in his bedroom, for convenience sake, but that one is now empty, and Michelle can't seem to get him to buy a new one.

("Eh, I'll get one later," he had said. "I'll be fine without it. I heal. Plus, I hardly get injured anymore. I'm too good"). _(He could honestly be the most annoying person on the planet)._

Michelle rushes to the bathroom, where she turns on the hot water before rummaging through the cupboards. She finds a first aid kit shoved in the back of one - half empty as though Peter has already gotten to it - then grabs a hand towel and soaks it under the warm water. There's a moment where she hesitates, mind racing, trying to think if she needs anything else, but the desire to get back to Peter overrides any other thought, and she finds herself racing back to his bedroom.

He has stripped down to his waist when she gets back, carefully crawling onto the bed, and is currently inspecting his wound with an expression equal parts curious and pained. It looks worse without parts of the suit obscuring it, crimson blood stark against the pale of his sweaty skin.

Michelle kneels in front of him, carefully placing a hand on the bare skin of his uninjured shoulder to keep her balance as she begins to carefully clean away the blood. Her eyes are focused, carefully dabbing the warm towel around his wound, but she can feel Peter's eyes on her, trained to her face. At some point, he had reached up to her other arm and grabbed the long sleeve of her shirt, clinging to her.

"You said it felt like you were on fire," Michelle murmurs as she works. "It doesn't look like you were burned."

"Hm, it didn't feel like my skin was burnt," Peter replies. He grimaces as she dabs at the blood directly on his wound. "More like...like my insides were on fire. Like I'd fucking...swallowed the sun."

Michelle rocks back to look at him, and his gaze follows her, never leaves her. She bends down and presses a kiss to the little crease between his brows. His grimace melts away, softens to a small smile.

"Hey, MJ?" he asks.

She goes back to cleaning his wound. "Mm?"

"Would it be lame to say that I missed you when you left the room?"

Her lips quirk. "Very lame."

He tilts his head back against the headboard, Michelle glances at where the room's light is shining on the column of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

"Okay," he says, with a slight grin. "I won't say it then."

They sit in silence for a moment.

"MJ?" Peter asks again.

"Yes?"

"I missed you when you left the room. I miss you all the time."

Michelle snorts, rolls her eyes at him, then she cups his jaw with one hand and kisses her dumb, dork of a boyfriend. Peter doesn't let her go when she tries to pull away, holding her face gently, kissing her again and again and again.

When she finally gets free of him - she _is_ trying to treat a serious injury after all - she can see that he has a dopey smile on his face, looking a little dazed. Lips red.

"You're my favourite person," he says.

It's insanely endearing, but also a little worrying considering Peter is sappy but not _this_ sappy, and Michelle furrows her brows at him. "Did you hit your head?"

"Yeah," he says. "Little bit." He pauses then adds, "Also I just really love you."

Michelle leans forwards, studying his eyes, looking for signs of a concussion. They seem normal, but she's not quite sure. This whole taking care of a superhero thing is, if she's honest, confusing and unnecessarily stressful.

Peter seems to think that she's going in for another kiss because he puckers his lips.

"I love you too," she says, moving before he can kiss her. "But you're really distracting me right now."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

He settles back, keeping still, lips pressed together, as she finishes cleaning his wound. It looks much better with most of the blood wiped away, and isn't that deep, which is a relief. She disinfects it (Peter groans through his teeth and grips her hand tightly) and then patches it up.

(She also presses her lips to the bare skin above the wound, a gentle, intimate gesture, her hand absentmindedly trailing down the bumps of his abdomen, because she really _does_ love him).

 

* * *

 

Later, Michelle is sitting once again with her legs crossed on the bed and Peter's feet in her lap. Except, unlike before, he is shirtless, and, instead of reading, is staring up at ceiling with heavy eyes. He had recounted his experience with the burglars with his usual enthusiasm after she had fixed him up, seems much better than before. So now she is redoing his nails, because it's surprisingly soothing, and satisfying, and when Peter had kicked off the rest of his suit he had looked down at his feet and said "Aw, they actually look kinda pretty."

"You're my doing my nails next," Michelle tells him now.

"Okay," Peter replies sleepily. "I'm good at it. I used to do May's nails all the time. On her right hand, because she sucked at painting them with her left."

"You mean you've had this hidden nail painting talent this whole time and you never told me?"

"I have many hidden talents."

Michelle flicks her hair out of her face, raises an eyebrow at him, though he doesn't see it. "Like what?" she asks sceptically.

Peter lifts himself up on his good arm, careful not to also shift his feet, Michelle's eyes travel from his bare chest to the dumb smirk on his face.

"This may come as a shock to you," he says, squashing his expression down into something serious. "But...I'm Spider-Man."

Michelle feigns surprise. "So _that's_ why you're always wearing that Spider-Man costume. I just thought you had a massive crush on him."

"Oh, I do," Peter replies, and honestly, Michelle isn't even sure if he's joking anymore. She makes sure his nails are dry and then tickles the bottom of his feet. He almost kicks her in the face.

 

Even later, the light is off, the room dark and shadowy, and Michelle is curled up into Peter's side, head on his chest. He was supposed to take her home, but neither of them had wanted to leave each other. (Her mother didn't seem very happy about letting her sleep over, but Michelle had told her that she was sleeping on the couch, and that Ned was here too, and that they didn't feel safe driving on the road this late at night, and she had finally relented).

Peter's breathing is slowly evening out, seems to be drifting off to sleep, and it is calming and comforting, until he makes a little noise in the back of his throat and rolls over to face her.

He mumbles, quietly, sounding half asleep, "With you, intimacy colours my voice. Even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here'."

And Michelle blinks at him, at the shadows covering half of his face, at his heavy lidded eyes, and replies, "Did you just quote a poem to me?"

"I might've been lying when I said I didn't like it," he says, intertwining their legs under the covers, warm skin against skin. Their arms rest between them. 

"No shit," Michelle says. 

"I just like firing you up."

"Asshole."

Half of his smile is squished into his pillow. "It's another one of my many hidden talents."

"What?" Michelle asks, rubbing one foot up and down his leg in an attempt to warm it up. "Quoting poetry? Firing me up? Or being an asshole?"

"All of the above."

"Good choice."

Peter laughs, wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer to him. He lifts his chin and, because of their slight height difference, Michelle has to wriggle down the bed to fit under it.

"Thanks for patching me up," he mumbles into her hair. "You really are my favourite person."

Michelle smiles, lips pressed against the skin of her dorky, affectionate, poetry loving boyfriend.

"You're mine too."

**Author's Note:**

> [twits](https://twitter.com/spideychelle)


End file.
